


Naming of the Parts

by purplesheep22



Series: Naming of the Parts [1]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Olympus Has Fallen (Movies)
Genre: A Chinese-English Translation, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Benjamin Asher is Harvey Dent, Developing Relationship, M/M, Translation, mention of past Harvey Dent/Bruce Wayne
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-24 08:47:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9714032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purplesheep22/pseuds/purplesheep22
Summary: Things happen when you are cleaning your gun.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Naming of the Parts](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/264623) by manguinette. 



> The plot bunnies are from 草沙 and masayosi. Credits to them!  
> Nothing much other than that, just several movie scenes I wish to develop them into detail.  
> An open ending of sort, 'cause I can't go on... Sorry. (Run away.

 

 

And this you can see is the bolt. The purpose of this

Is to open the breech, as you see. We can slide it

Rapidly backwards and forwards: we call this

Easing the spring. And rapidly backwards and forwards

The early bees are assaulting and fumbling the flowers:

          They call it easing the Spring.

 

— _Naming of the Parts_ , Henry Reed

 

 

They say that power is the ultimate aphrodisiac.

Mike Banning was not sure about who "they" were, but he knew that the person who said this had a certain point.

Especially when it comes to Benjamin Asher.

 

His President has short blond hair, sky-blue eyes, and a cheesy handsomeness that belongs only to the remote era of black-and-white silent films. He is a caring father with principles and a bottom lines. He is a mourning widower. There are god-knows how many codes that only he has access to. But he can be sometimes carefree too: striding down the corridor of the White House as he rolls up his sleeves, proudly humming some ditty out of tune, that is, usually after an exceptionally successful negotiation. And these are the secrets only known to his closest protection details.

The left side of the bed in the Lincoln Bedroom has been empty for four years.

Everybody knows that Benjamin Asher is left-handed, but he always chooses to sleep on the right side, closer to the door. In case of a break-in, he would be the first one attacked instead of his wife on the other side.

He is a President without a First Lady, without a date in four years, and with an official Facebook page crowded by #Wewantafirstlady tags. It is not that no one has tried to set him up with someone, but Mike Banning has the privilege to witness how awkward or absent-minded Benjamin Asher is in such situations. And these are also the secrets only known to his closest protection details.

 

Mike Banning was shaking. He was scared.

He kneeled on the ground, hands cupping Benjamin Asher's cold, pale face, mind completely blanked out for a moment. Next second, he took out the sterile bandage, tore open the package, briefly tended to the President's wound, solely relying on muscle memories hammered in by hundreds of drills.

Exit wound. According to the medical emergency manual for secret agents, it is not a particularly concerning type of injury. It requires immediate treatment all right, but is not life-threatening in most situations. But the manual did not mention the most important point. The manual is never on the point. The point it, his President, with all his Gryffindor candor and recklessness, boldly acted before thinking, and took a bullet for him.

 

"Cerberus," Benjamin Asher forced out.

"What?" Mike Banning did not catch it.

Last word? Confession? Password to bank account? A number of fuzzy ideas ran through his mind in that splitting moment. He automatically supported Benjamin Asher with one hand on the back of his neck, and turned to position his ear directly above his mouth.

 

"Cerberus," Benjamin Asher repeated, "... Cerberus was activated."

Mike Banning turned to look at the blinking control panel, and turned back to his pale, injured President. He gritted his teeth.

"It'll be fine," He said, more to reassure himself than to Benjamin Asher.

"It'll be fine. I'll get you out of here."

 

Benjamin Asher's blood was warm. The lips at his ear were chill and dry. He frowned when pained. He was fearless confronting Kang Yeonsak. And these were also the secrets only known to his closest protection detail.

 

However, those secrets were betrayed and exposed, shown on thousands of television and computer screens, with the uploaded YouTube video. They are no longer solely Mike Banning's.

 

It was dusk and raining.

There was a small party at Mike Banning's place. He couldn't remember what for, probably for his second close escape, or perhaps it was a baby shower. He could only recall the vague conversation and laughter of Leah and the guests from the kitchen. Rainwater was hitting on the window pane, its silhouette shifting in the living room. Mike Banning sat in a dark corner, stunned, gaping. He was looking at Benjamin Asher on his screen. There he was, unflinching. There was fear in his eyes. There was desperation. And there was that damn damnable resolve and faith.

 

The next day, Mike Banning moved out of the house.

He did not inform a lot of people, besides the necessary update at work— his new boss was not as understanding as Lynne, who was able to read an entire Carver short story into a minor shift in his features.

There was that usual tacit look of sympathy, manly pats on the shoulder and handshakes, and unavoidably, "She will sort this out one day, mate".

But it was me who could not sort this out. Mike Banning thought, and how is that supposed to work?

 

Yes, they say that power is the ultimate aphrodisiac.

Benjamin Asher is so good at stirring up and manipulating the emotion of the crowd. There is magic in his every public presence: he followed the original plan and took the stage in a downpour, shirt completely soaked and clings to the skin, blue eyes sparkling like a firestorm, and the people listening to him went almost crazy; he is the center of attention in every international summit: every gesture, every smile, even the tiniest turn of head, is pure politics: doesn't reveal anything, doesn't betray even the slightest personal emotion.

He is so good at this. He seems to be born for flashlight and cameras. His every facial expression and body language has been practiced and polished by his million-dollar PR team.

And Mike Banning is always standing, falling a few steps behind, back against a wall, creating an inconspicuous presence, full attention on his President. He can precisely predict Asher's next movement and expression. He can anticipate the angle of his smile as he gives a reply.

 

Therefore, during the London escape, in the dimly lit underground, when Benjamin Asher stared right into his eyes and asked "You don't let them take me", Mike Banning was not surprised. Not surprised, at all.

"I'm not going to—"

"Let me finish," Benjamin Asher interrupted, tone gentle.

"If it comes to it, if it's going south..."

"Sir," Mike Banning knew where this conversation was going, and hurried to stop him. But how was him a match when up against Benjamin Asher, who has been in this business for twenty years?

"Mike." Benjamin Asher said his name, voice still gentle, but tinged this time with his trademark authority: irresistible, unquestionable.

"...if it comes to it, I want you to kill me."

At that moment, Benjamin Asher's face was something that Mike Banning had never seen before: tired, calm, every guard down, and it broke Mike Banning's heart.

 

Mike Banning, former Ranger, a ruthless war machine who kills without mercy, believes that the best plan is not to have one: he is a heavy axe without an edge, fitter to bruise than polish. It had saved his life, saved his comrades' lives on countless occasions, and had saved Benjamin Asher's life.

"Okay." So he simply answered.

At this, the President nodded in silence, seemed relieved.

 

And yes. A promise is a promise for Mike Banning.

Compared to people, Mike Banning trusts his weapons more. Whether it is the handy SIG P229, or the powerful FNP90, or even a standard knife in hand-to-hand combats, as long as they fall into Mike Banning's hands, they are all deathly tools: their coldness and weight the best reassurance in the face of death and violence.

However, when the enemy dragged Benjamin Asher out of the car right in front of him, Mike Banning was horrified to realize that, for the first time in his life, he lost the nerve to shoot. The small piece of metal was clutched firmly in his hand, light as a feather yet heavy as a tombstone. He just needed to raise his arm, take aim, and pull the trigger: an action repeated for thousands of times. Benjamin Asher would have been the easiest target. He would not dodge. He was waiting for the bullet. He was not afraid of death.

But what was making Mike Banning afraid?

 

They did not talk about it.

When they got back to Washington D.C. from London, they did not talk about the dimly lit underground, or the turned-over car. As if nothing had happened.

Nonetheless, Mike Banning was sensitive enough to pick up that something was wrong with his President.

In international conferences, where there was heated argument, neither party willing to compromise, to the point of almost pulling each other's tie and calling for a duel; in the regular budget meeting, where even the air stagnated, everyone falling asleep except for the person speaking; in a state dinner, where champagne glasses were passed from hand to hand, people well-dressed and elegant in speech— sometimes, Mike Banning found that Benjamin Asher was distracted.

More precisely speaking, he found that sometimes, in the midst of meetings and engagements, Benjamin Asher would suddenly lift his eyes, across all the people and events in between, to seek Mike Banning out in the crowd. Then he was maskless: gentle, silent. And pondering.

The first time when he found the President looking, Mike Banning's heart skipped a beat. The next second, when he confirmed that nothing on him was out of place and searched for the President's eyes again, Benjamin Asher was no longer looking at him. He was reading from a  document, picking up right after where the previous speaker finished. He cited the exact numbers as they were mentioned. His words were clear and organized.

There was no evidence to prove that he had been distracted.

Mike Banning let out a breath he didn't know he was holding, not sure it was for disappointment or relief.

 

Mike Banning was the one who had colorfully told the then-Speaker, Mr Allan Trumbull, to "go fuck himself". Even so, when the current Vice President and the President were in the middle of a heated argument, he could only stand by and watch, back to the wall, like all his other colleagues.

"I know that it's you who called the drone attack against Barkawi, Allan." It was the President speaking.

The Vice President stood in front of the desk silently in the Oval Office, no denial, no refusal, with straight back.

"I'm not going to comment, because you were the Acting President." Benjamin Asher continued. He took off his glasses, tiredly pinched his nose, pacing behind his desk like a trapped animal.

"But you know what, that son of a bitch Barkawi got one thing correct— we sent our poor men's kids there to die."

"With all due respect, Mr. President—" That's not going to end well, Mike Banning thought. The VP only addresses the President this way when things go really, really bad.

"You are not running a charity."

 

Mike Banning was born in a poor family.

He joined the army like all other boys from such families, because they are  not doing so well in school, for lack of a better choice, for that meant one mouth less to feed in the family, for a good salary and an opportunity to get higher education. And he was good at it. Loyalty, unconditional obedience, immediate response, and making the best and safest choice in the shortest time.

These traits had led him all the way to Benjamin Asher.

Benjamin Asher, whose father had been in Vietnam and who had suffered severe PTSD; whose mother separated from his father very early in life and ran a small inn, bringing her son up by herself. He was brilliant in school, got into law school on part-time odd jobs and a full scholarship; was first appointed Assistant District Attorney of Gotham City after graduation, to then became the youngest elected D.A. in history.

As the saying goes, he who can handle the job of the Gotham D.A. can handle anything.

With small-dollar donations and a friendly image, Benjamin Asher won the Presidential Election that year. After Obama, he was not the most ideal example of the "American Dream", nor the most extraordinary one, hell, he was not even the only blonde one.

But he was the President whom Mike Banning has sworn his allegiance to and to protect with his life.

Contrary to popular belief, killing or fighting is not the strongest forte of the Secret Service agents. Instead, they're extremely good at reading people. They can determine the origin and objective, past and future of any individual in ten seconds. And Mike Banning has been watching over his President for seven years.

Seven years.

Enough time to clear all prejudice, doubts, and reservations.

 

Mike Banning was alerted by a strange noise in the President's bedroom.

The next second, he rushed into the room, gun in hand, ready to protect, attack, and strike back.

What he saw, however, was that a berth lamp was on; the glass of water, documents, and books littered the night stand were now on the floor; Benjamin Asher was sitting on the bedside in pajamas, a hand over his nose, blood seeping out between fingers. The small crimson puddle on the floor was nothing short of terrifying.

"Nosebleed." The President waved his other hand dismissively, said.

"... nothing to worry about."

Mike Banning grabbed the box of tissue paper that the President was trying but unable to reach. He took out a stack and handed them over.

Benjamin Asher took it, murmured thanks. He used them to clean and stuff his nose, and tilted his head backwards in an attempt to stop the bleeding.

Mike Banning put away the service weapon, went to the bathroom to get some cold towels, then proceeded to clean the blood on the floor and pick up the scattered documents and books.

When he was done, the President had already dutifully lain down in bed.

Mike Banning stood there, not sure what to do. He watched the President in silence for a while, then could not bear the urge to ask,

"Should I call the doctor?"

"It's just the stress... no need to make a fuss." The President waved tiredly, smiled at himself.

Mike Banning took the hint and shut his mouth, heading to the door.

"Good night, Mr President." He said as he reached the door, ready to flee.

"Mike," the President called to him.

In the dim light, Benjamin Asher was in pajamas, sitting on the bed. His left nostril was stuffed with tissue paper, looking somewhat ridiculous. But his blue eyes were shining. He was looking at Mike, as if pleading for something, as if for nothing at all.

"... I wanted to go home."

 

Benjamin Asher's mother had already passed away.

Home, meant a small house in the outskirts of Gotham City, meant loads of additional work for many departments, meant a logistics and management nightmare, layers of red tapes, and "why not Camp David this year" from the media; and the man whom Mike Banning had gotten the most headaches from: Bruce Wayne.

From the first glance, Mike Banning has hated this person with passion: flirtious smile, playboy mannerism, with no regard for manners or procedures. And Benjamin Asher's attitude towards Bruce was no help: he is gentle, patient with his old friend, and utterly tolerant. How much exactly does Benjamin owe this man? And there are people saying that Benjamin Asher's campaign has never accepted a single cent from the Wayne Enterprises.

 

It was a tranquil summer evening.

Connor went to bed quite early after a crazy day. Mike Banning and the protection team were bored stiff listening to Bruce Wayne's endless jokes and anecdotes over his way-too-long whisky-soda talk with the President.

There was way too much information indeed. Mike Banning could swear that over the course of the dinner, he and all the other agents present were informed enough gossips of the Kardashian sisters’ to last them a lifetime.

Before leaving, Bruce Wayne looked at Mike Banning meaningfully and patted his shoulder. Banning tried to dodge but failed.

"If I were you," Bruce Wayne said, "I'd know what this place meant."

No one knew what he was talking about. That been said, very few people know what Bruce Wayne is trying to say any way.

 

Mike Banning was cleaning his sidearm at the kitchen table.

"Connor asleep?" He stopped for a second to ask.

Benjamin Asher, drying his hair with a towel, walked into the kitchen. He opened the fridge, hummed to the question, took out a bottle of water, twisted open the lid and took some sips.

"What are you doing?" He asked, closing the fridge door, draping the towel on the back of a chair.

"I'm cleaning my gun." Mike Banning answered. "... Sir." He added after a beat.

"Relax." Benjamin Asher glanced at him, amused. "This is my home, not Camp David, nor the White House."

Mike nodded, somewhat awkwardly, and continued his work.

There was some light movement at his back. Benjamin Asher had circled behind, without him noticing.

"Wanna bet?" The President watched for a while before suddenly suggesting.

 

"What bet?" Mike asked.

"... They all tell me that my secret agents can disassemble then reassemble their sidearm in under thirty-five seconds. I'd want to try who's faster."

"Ben," Mike warned, "you don't want to make this bet."

"I'm the President. I can do whatever I want." Benjamin Asher pulled out a chair and sat down, smirking. Since London, Mike had not seen such expression for quite some time.

"You are asking for it." Mike said, getting competitive. He took out his cell, slide to unlock the screen, taking a while to find the app with stopwatch, and pushed it to the President.

"You are doing the timing. ...Don't cheat."

 

"Aha," Benjamin Asher caught his hands and pushed them down on the table, "... I didn't make myself clear, did I? You'd have to do it with your eyes closed."

"And you think this is the way to win this game?"

Mike Banning almost laughed out loud, but the next second, something stopped him from laughing. Benjamin Asher suddenly leaned into his personal space, his hands circled around Mike's shoulders, touched his shirt collar, loosened the knot, and dragged out the tie with a professional "swoosh".

"What?" The president shrugged, looking at a shocked Mike Banning, expression smug. "I am not the one wearing a tie." He gestured towards his white T-shirt and pajama bottoms, then covered Mike's eyes gently with the tie, silk still warm from Mike's body heat.

Mike Banning's heart yielded and began to beat frantically. The President was standing right behind him. He could sense the fresh smell from his shower soap.

The fabric was sliding over his eyelids, and then was tied at the back of his head. Benjamin Asher fell silent for a moment, with no further move.

Then he leaned down, over Mike's shoulder, and pressed the start button of the stopwatch.

"Go." He said.

 

Mike was a bit nervous, but muscle memory ran more deeply than anything. He took a deep breath, and exhaled slowly. His hands were over the guns in front of him.

Slide out the clip. Take out the safety. Screw open the body. Take off the barrel. Every move is practiced, repeated for hundreds of times. Even in a situation of life and death, under bullets and cannon balls, there is no room for mistake.

But no one has told him, when the hands of the President of the United States are on your shoulders, and slowly moving south, what should he do.

Mike was at a total loss.

"Fifteen seconds." Warm breath lingered above his head. There was a hint of smile in Benjamin's voice.

Good job to Mike Banning. He managed to put the gun back together in 15 seconds, and angrily pulled off the eye cover.

"You cheated." He accused in fury, and was met with Benjamin Asher's nonchalant smile.

"And you forgot that I’m a politician." Benjamin shrugged. He sat down in a chair next to his, calmly looked at Mike, arching one blond eyebrow.

Mike Banning was incredulous.

"... Are we game or not?" said Benjamin Asher impatiently.

 

The next moment, Mike Banning was towering over Benjamin Asher, who was blindfolded with his tie, sitting at the table, looking serene. His hands were both flat on the table, the gun beside them.

"Go." Mike pressed the button and gloated.

And it was then when Benjamin Asher moved, to his utter shock and disbelief. His slim fingers were fast, and his movement was relaxed, with a trained dexterity. He took apart the gun and put it back again in one smooth set of motions, and all that in less than 35 seconds

"Carbon fiber, point eight-five, made in America." Benjamin Asher pushed the clip in with a metallic "ding". He murmured, not without a trace of nostalgia.

"Mike, you also forgot about my political career. As Gotham's DA, you're not getting shot at, you're not doing your job right."

He turned back the muzzle and gently put the gun on the table, then turned to face Mike, seeking him out with other senses.

"Mike," he called his name, softly.

"... so, did I win? Or is it you?"

 

The number on the stopwatch was still jumping, but no one was paying it any attention.

Benjamin Asher was still sitting there, not trying to pull off the blindfold. He couldn't see, but the trust and gentleness on his face were easy to read.

He was waiting.

 

 

End

 


End file.
